Page 40 of Dukes Do It Better
“Your suggestion is that I fool my shyness into subsiding. That’s flirting?” Adelaide said.
“I think for you, it is,” Emma said. “I know Saint Alban’s taught us flirting was all fan language and fluttering our eyelashes. Your shyness probably makes it all feel terribly awkward and false. Pretend he’s a close friend and be the version of yourself you are with me—with us. You’ll enchant him more than you already have.”
It struck her that the falseness of her training from their finishing school had always felt natural to Emma. Perhaps it should have been a warning sign from the beginning, when she was more comfortable constructing a facade than being authentic. Maybe that’s how her mother’s conscience had survived so many betrayals over the years. The endless line of affairs and flirtations. After a while Mother hadn’t even tried to hide her romantic adventures, because discretion had never been the point. It had been about reacting to Father’s last affair, and the two fought, reconciled, and betrayed in a painful cycle. Emma supposed it would be hard to harbor guilt about playing someone false when you yourself were false down to the core.
Honesty. Authenticity. Two ways Emma could be different from her parents. She drew in a breath to tell her friends she wasn’t entirely convinced these few weeks would be enough with Mal, but Phee spoke first.
“Speaking from experience,” she said, squeezing Adelaide’s hand, “there’s nothing better than knowing you’re loved for who you truly are. We all have some version of a social mask. But the people in our inner circle get to see behind the mask. If you want to let him closer, you’ll need to give him a peek.”
Emma clamped her mouth closed. If she wanted more from Mal, she needed to give him a glimpse of the real her. The rollicking woman enjoying the assembly rooms in a tiny village was one part—but by no means all of her, any more than her society manners were. Fearing what he’d think if he saw Emma clearly in all of her messy, damaged entirety was another problem. However, it was possible to offer more of herself than she currently was.
Surely she could maintain a part-time lover. A marriage, with the terrifying intimacy expected with it, was too much to contemplate.
Adelaide wandered to the next piece of statuary with Lady Agatha. Emma and the others were following behind when one of their servants hurried down the hall toward them.
“Charles, what is it?” Phee asked.
The footman, clad in pristine livery, bowed. “I apologize for the interruption, milady. We found this in the coach. None of us were aware of a delivery, so I thought it suspicious.” Charles held out a piece of paper, no larger than his palm, neatly folded and sealed with a glob of blood-red wax.
Phee reached for it, sending a worried glance at Emma and Lottie. The paper quivered when Phee opened the note, read it, then held it out.
Lottie took the note and read it first. “Oh dear God, not you too,” she murmured, and handed it to Emma.
The vaguely familiar handwriting made dread flood her belly. Not everything can be solved with money. One down, two to go. Who will be next?
Emma opened her mouth, but Phee hissed. “Shh. Not here. Let’s join the others. We’ll talk at home.”
Farther down the gallery, Lady Agatha commented in her echoing voice, “I have seen enough tiny penises for one day. We should go have tea.”
Chapter Twelve
How can I miss you so intensely, when I don’t even know what you look like?
—Journal entry, December 4, 1824
This doesn’t work!”
The toy wooden boat landed at Emma’s feet. She crossed her arms and raised a brow at her son. “Well, it certainly won’t work if you throw it about. Should you break your toy, I’m not getting you another. We take care of our things, Alton Hardwick.”
He crossed his arms, mimicking her stance, and scrunched his face. The tremble of his bottom lip nearly made her laugh. “It’s broken already.”
Emma closed her eyes and prayed for patience. The Serpentine wasn’t crowded today, thank God, so there were very few nurses and children about to witness her son’s tantrum. He’d been like this all day—whiny, complaining about every little thing, with his temper on a hair trigger.
None of which helped with her rapidly disappearing well of tolerance. Of course, it was possible Alton’s temper and her own were fed by the tensions in the house. After receiving the note at the museum yesterday, Ethan and Lottie had been at the house for most of the waking hours talking things over with Cal and Phee. Emma caught bits and pieces of the conversations, and no one was actively excluding her. At the same time, Emma became aware she and Alton were a separate household unto themselves. So far she didn’t appear to be in danger from whoever was behind these threats.
Assuming the other person the blackmailer referred to wasn’t her. One down, two to go, the note had said.
The couples had brought together the books for all their financial ventures, comparing lists of colleagues they’d both done business with to find a common denominator somewhere. Some clue as to where to begin their search.
No one yelled or was short-tempered with the boys, but the air felt different. Heavier, as if the entire household carried dread with them as they went about their day. Everyone was irritable or distracted, right down to the miniature humans in their care.
A horrible feeling of impotence made Emma twitchy. She couldn’t do a damn thing to help her brother, but at least she could help Alton. Children were simple in some ways, and in this, she knew what her son needed. His mood could be mended with a run. Back home, he’d clamber up and down the cliff trail by their cottage and frolic on the beach while yelling at the top of his lungs like the absolute heathen he was.
Here, they had to settle for a walk to the park—which was far enough away for him to complain about the distance, but not enough to actually tire him out. Alton had brought the toy boat with him, tucked in a basket of odds and ends Miss Lacey had packed for the outing.
“What do you mean when you say it doesn’t work? It floats fine.”
“But it doesn’t run away. The sail isn’t moving.”
